


type five

by habibite



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:14:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27692626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/habibite/pseuds/habibite
Summary: “the worst kind of tedious. finding an agreement with people that i frankly don’t care to agree with is something i think nadia hands to me just for her amusement.”“i’m sure she would never. you’re just the beacon of hope for the people of Vesuvia.”“and you’re certain that’s an outcome you’d want?”“my fate has been in worse hands, valerius.”
Relationships: Apprentice/Valerius (The Arcana), Valerius (The Arcana)/Reader, Valerius (The Arcana)/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	type five

**Author's Note:**

> posted on tumblr @ devorakdork
> 
> i uh kind of already went through all of the consul valerius fiction and so i had to roll up my sleeves and produce this thing. what started out as only having the first two paragraphs in my mind on a drive home turned into... this... drabble.  
> anyway i love valerius and i'll probably edit this up at some point, but until then, please enjoy my contribution to the fandom.
> 
> (oh also in case you didn't catch it, the title is indeed a reference to the five types of love language.)

Valerius isn’t a touch person.

Valerius isn’t a touch person, but, there is a desk pushed against the wall of his room, where he finishes all of his most important work by candlelight late at night. And next to his desk, sits one overly comfortable chair, absolutely out-of-place in consideration to the rest of his bedroom décor, that you have pulled up close. 

There is more than one occasion that you can count where Valerius has sat late into the night, his candles burning low, pouring over documents and pressing wax into seals, all the while your fingers twist softly into the fabric of his robes, hanging on loosely while you drift off to sleep. 

You’re neither brave enough nor naïve enough to push the gesture too hard, or to read into it more for than what it simply was: and that was the two of you seemingly growing far enough into your relationship to understand and accommodate the needs you both had. 

For Valerius, it was simple. He’s practical: a worker, when it comes down to it. His space being something required for him to be most proficient, and most comfortable. 

For you: well, you are a word that is on the tip of his tongue. He knows it means something, but it’s _just_ beyond his reach. But what he does know, and what he can place, is that you sleep better, you always sleep better, when he is within arm’s reach. 

It’s a tenderness he can’t escape.

So he allows it.

He hardly raises an eyebrow when he finds that one day his furniture has been moved, and only gives a slight noncommittal hum when he finds himself in the middle of the demonstration of _why_ it’s been moved. 

It’s growth. And tonight is no exception.

You are settled in your little chair, contorted in such a way that he can’t possibly work it out in his head how it’s comfortable: head tilted back across the armrest, fingers hidden underneath a layer of expensively soft fabric.

He’s working on his sixth scroll of the night, his glass of red wine sitting just to the left of him. The bottle next to it is almost forgotten as his brows furrowed over the work assigned to him.

Your eyelids flutter, fighting between staying awake and _just five more minutes._

The next thing you’re aware of, your vision is focusing on how there is significantly less light in the room. You hear a voice, and it registers in your head after a moment. 

“It’s past your bedtime, witch.” 

His gaze on you is almost indirect, barley casting over his shoulder as he still grips his pen. You fully take in the sight, and see that he’s changed from his daily wear into more casual nightclothes. 

Your fingers are no longer underneath the fabric of his robes, either; rather, your palm is pressed against the outside of his thigh. The warm smile that tugs at your lips is almost immediate, aided by the knowledge that he has left and come back. He’s left, and he’s come back to this setup. 

He’s left and he’s come back to you.

“Is that right, Consul?” You tease. Your cheek brushes against the fabric of the chair, resting so that you can look up at him while still remaining comfortable. 

“I believe so, yes.” 

“Very well, then.” You sigh, the tips of your fingers twitching just _so_ to add pressure against where they lay against his leg. 

...And then, there is a moment that causes hot (or maybe it’s cold, it’s hard to tell,) electricity to spark up against your flesh. 

Valerius’s fingertips brush against the back of your knuckles, the lightest of motions before his palm rests against your hand. 

“Very well, then,” he echoes. 

You blink. A small hitch comes into your breath, capitalizing the surprise you feel. 

You take in his appearance for the second time since you woke, _really_ taking it in this time, and you appreciate the change of his clothes; how his long braid is now pinned to the back of his head. The dim glow of the candlelight across his features show you how soft he can look, and how unguarded he’s presented to you in this moment. 

When you pull your gaze away, you see that the scrolls that he had been working on are now tucked away in their spots at his desk. It seems now as if he’s just doing absentminded work to pass the time.

Your eyes crinkle in appreciation of it all.

“It does seem to be getting late. Are you done with your work?”

“For the night, yes.” There’s a slight edge in his voice—fully controlled, and one you’ve found to always be there when he’s entering unfamiliar territory. You hear him use the tone in meetings with foreign dignitaries, with the few members of the staff that still might disagree with him; and, more recently and most noticeably, you hear him use it when speaking with you. “There’s still a great deal to be done. But I’m running low on light, on wine, and on patience.” 

It’s hard to stop the laugh that threatens to escape past your lips, but you manage. It’s _such_ a Valerius answer that it’s almost ridiculous.

Instead, you let out a small _hmmmph,_ before craning your neck slightly. 

“It sounds like dreadful work.” 

“The worst kind of tedious. Finding an agreement with people that I frankly _don’t care_ to agree with is something I think Nadia hands to me for the sole purpose of her amusement.” 

“I’m sure she would never. You’re just the beacon of hope for the people of Vesuvia.” 

A long pause then, and he tries—visibly—to hold back his contempt at the very thought.

“And you’re certain that’s an outcome you’d want?” 

“My fate has been in worse hands before, Valerius,” you remind him. You can’t, and don’t try to, stop the yawn that comes as you speak. “Regardless of the outcome, I feel very confident when it comes to betting on you.” 

You watch as his lips purse in response, quietly mulling over the words. 

Often, you think it would be easier for the both of you if you could only get a glimpse into what he was thinking. 

“Fortunately,” finally he speaks, and it’s almost as if he’s reminded himself of where exactly he is in the world. There’s the slightest squeeze against your hand, so small you wouldn’t notice it if he didn’t have your absolute attention in the moment.. “It’s an outcome that can wait until the morning.” 

Sometimes, just sometimes, your lack of telepathy and abundance of patience paid off. 

“That’s good. It is past my bedtime, after all, Consul.” It’s hard to drop the teasing tone now that you know that you both might actually be back in safe waters, that the feeling of apprehension that he so often carries might actually be slipping. 

“Ah, yes. It would be criminal of me to have the Court Magician keep up such late hours, wouldn’t it?” 

“It would be, Consul. I’m not sure how your reputation would come back. Retiring for the night would be in everyone’s best interest.”

“If you say so.” 

Finally, you can’t take it any longer. The mirth that’s been building bubbles up inside of you, spilling out into laughter. You place a light and quick kiss to the back of his hand before untangling from your own limbs. 

“A unanimous vote it is, then.” Passing up the rare moment of mutual bravery would be an absolute waste, you tell yourself. You rise up from your seat, trying not to focus too much on the look on Valerius’s face (is it shock? Concern? Endearment?) as he looks at you. In return, you reach your hand out to him, an open gesture. 

“How easy you make it seem.” It sounds almost as if he’s grumbling, ready to hatch open a counter statement just as if he were at work. 

But perhaps it’s the wine he’s chosen for the night. Or perhaps it’s the time that’s passed from his beginning to now. Or perhaps is a combination of any sorts of things—but a genuine smile graces his lips as he stands. 

An ever-practical man, he snuffs out the remaining candles placed on his desk, puts his fountain pen back in it’s holder, pushes his chair back into place and then—

His fingers thread between your own. 


End file.
